


What Every Step Is For

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bedsharing, Cold, Fake Relationship, Illness, Injury, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, hitting allllll the tropes, lack of beds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 21:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16048988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: Five times bedsharing occurred due to circumstance, and one time it happened by invitation.





	What Every Step Is For

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the Coven for the beta and britpicking :)

**1**

“Budge up.”

“Why? What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded, voice thick with exhaustion. He'd been without sleep for five days, which had undoubtedly factored in to his slight misstep as he and John had closed in on their suspect. He'd zigged when he should have zagged and hadn't quite managed to duck Peterson's fist. The blow had been glancing, not even leaving a bruise, but it had caught him off balance and he'd fallen, hard, the side of his head colliding with the skip even as John had caught his attacker in a rugby tackle. Sherlock had not lost consciousness, but he was still seeing stars a few moments later, when John left their zip-tied suspect in lying in a puddle to come check him for injuries. He'd insisted on a trip to A&E after Lestrade had arrived to take Peterson into custody, promising statements after a clean CT scan and a night's sleep. Sherlock hadn't argued, and hadn't missed the way John and Lestrade had shared a worried look at his quiet acquiescence.

John had kept him awake in the back of the patrol car Lestrade had piled them into for the ride to University College Hospital, and in the lobby during their brief wait. He'd dozed briefly during the CT scan, in spite of the noise of the machine, and slumped against John's shoulder in the cab on the way home. He'd fallen into bed, still wearing one sock, and had been halfway to oblivion when John had spoken.

“Getting into bed, you numpty. Should have thought that was obvious, even in your condition,” John replied. “Come on, shift.”

“Here?” Sherlock asked, staring blearily at John as the other man stood by his bed in pyjama bottoms and a worn tee shirt. He slid over to make room.

“Yes, here,” John answered, pulling the covers down and settling on the bed. “I'm not going to traipse up and down the stairs every two hours to wake you, and if I try to sleep on the sofa I won't be able to move in the morning.”

“It's just a mild concussion,” Sherlock protested, yawning.

“There is no such thing, Sherlock. Every brain injury is serious, and as this is _your_ brain we're talking about, I'm not taking any chances.”

Sherlock settled back on the pillows, saying nothing as John set the alarm function on his phone and put it on the bedside cabinet before turning out the light.

“I've never shared a bed before,” Sherlock murmured into the darkness.

“What, really?” John asked incredulously.

“Hmm,” Sherlock responded, turning his head to face John as the other man shuffled over onto his side to face Sherlock.

“Do you snore?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John replied with a quiet laugh. “Fair warning, though,” he continued, “I have been known to gravitate toward my bedmates when I'm asleep.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Sherlock said with a yawn, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He felt John settling next to him and wondered if this was supposed to be awkward. He was asleep before he could decide.

*** * ***

**2**

“I can't believe I let you talk me into this,” John groused as he tossed his bag on the floor at the foot of the bed, glancing around at the cramped stateroom.

“It's the most logical solution,” Sherlock responded, picking up a faux-leather portfolio on ship services and reclining on the pillows against the headboard.

“We are not undercover cops, Sherlock. We'd have done better to leave this to actual trained operatives,” John said, planting his hands on his hips and glaring at the detective.

“Lestrade couldn't get a team here in time,” Sherlock replied as he flipped through the pages. “Besides which, you know I stand a much better chance of locating Davis before she finds another target.”

“I know, I know. Just. We're on a cruise ship heading to the Mediterranean, and all we have 'packed' is dirty clothes because you just upended the laundry basket into my bag and threw it in the cab.”

“All cruise line ships offer laundry services, and the basket had the right mix of shirts and trousers and pants.”

“Right,” John replied, amused in spite of himself. “Well, since we're apparently doing this, you're on the wrong side.”

“What?”

“That's my side. I sleep on the left.”

“Oh.”

“You didn't even notice, did you?” John asked with a grin. “There's just the one bed.”

“Problem?”

“You know it's not, though I'll warn you again that I tend to cuddle my bedmates.”

“You didn't last time.”

“Yeah, well. Last time you had a concussion and I had to wake up every two hours to check on you. Didn't have time to get properly comfortable before the alarm went off again. This time, though ...”

“If all goes according to plan, we'll have Davis in custody by the time we dock in Lisbon,” Sherlock cut in. “I won't be sleeping on the case, and we can catch a flight home from there.”

“Oh, no. That's not on.”

“Hmm?”

“You did not manhandle me onto a cruise to the Mediterranean only to abandon ship at the first port of call. The room is paid for, I've always wanted to see Rome, and the weather at home is shite. We're staying.”

“You're not serious.”

“I absolutely am,” John replied. “Why wouldn't we stay? It'll be fun, yeah? The two of us on holiday?”

“A cruise would not be my first choice for a holiday.”

“Nor mine, really, but here we are. Might as well make the best of it. Next time we'll make actual plans for a trip. Get away somewhere nice. Pick something we'll both enjoy.”

“Next time?” Sherlock asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

“Yeah,” John said. “We can figure out the details later. First, we catch Davis, then we buy some sun cream to keep you from turning into a lobster while we enjoy Barcelona and Rome, and then we plan a real holiday.”

“You want to go on a 'real holiday'. With me.”

“Yep. So think about what you might want to see and do. But do it on the other side of the bed.”

“Fine.”

*** * ***

**3**

His mouth tasted like something had crawled into it and died, and he ached everywhere. He lifted his head from its resting place and blinked his eyes open. Sherlock lay next to him, turned in his direction, awake and watching him.

John looked around. They were in his room. In his bed.

“You're in my bed,” he said.

“Your observational skills are in sparkling form this morning, John.”

“Why are you in my bed?” John asked, pushing himself upright with a groan.

“You were drugged last night.”

“I was what? How?”

“Your date had heard that hallucinogens could make sex a rather spiritual experience. Something about deepening the connection between the intimate partners and the universe. Apparently she decided to experience this nirvana with you, and fed you magic mushroom casserole for dinner,” Sherlock said, sitting up and shifting to rest against the headboard, shoulder-to-shoulder with John.

“I don't remember that,” John said slowly. “I remember being angry, and terrified. And, I remember calling you.”

“Yes. When you noticed the effects kicking in you locked yourself in her loo and called me. You feared that your history might make your hallucinations a rather different type than your date expected.”

“God, yeah,” John agreed. “PTSD and hallucinations are not a good mix.”

“You don't have PTSD,” Sherlock replied.

“You're not qualified to make that determination,” John said.

“Neither is your therapist.”

“Her license says otherwise,” John replied. “Regardless, that doesn't explain why you're in my bed.” 

“When I arrived, you refused to come out of the loo, afraid that something would trigger you and turn the hallucinations you were experiencing into a full-blown flashback, which might make you a danger to anyone you encountered,” Sherlock explained. “It wasn't an unreasonable fear, and while I am confident that I could deal with that situation here in the flat, I was less certain of navigating you safely through London in that condition.”

“So, when you say I was drugged last night ...”

“Magic mushrooms, courtesy of 'Jenny', and midazolam provided by me. And, while you may not remember it now, unlike Jenny I did not drug you without your consent. Your text history will show our conversation and your agreement that, short of spending the night on the floor in the loo, the sedative was the best choice.”

“Do I want to know where you got the midazolam?”

“Probably not.”

“Right.”

“It was a 15 mg tablet, still in original packaging. Twenty minutes after you took it I escorted you out of Jenny's flat. I flagged down a cab and brought you home. You kept your eyes closed the whole drive. Your breathing was a bit ragged at first, but by the time we reached Baker Street it had calmed significantly. I got you upstairs and safely into bed, where I joined you to monitor you in case of continued hallucinations, or side effects from the combination of the two drugs.”

“Thanks for that,” John said, nodding and wincing at the ache in his head.

“Of course, John.”

“No, wait,” John said, throwing an arm out to catch Sherlock as the other man started to slide out of the bed. He turned to look his friend in the eye. “Thank you, Sherlock. I needed you, and you came for me. You kept me safe, and prevented me from endangering anyone else. Thank you.”

“Of course I did, John. You called me and I-” Sherlock paused. “Of course I did.”

“And you remembered to sleep on the correct side,” John said, squeezing Sherlock's arm before releasing it.

“The right side, yes,” Sherlock agreed.

“Your side.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock replied, flushing slightly, “I am a genius.”

*** * ***

**4**

“You realize you've not told me what we're doing here?”

“And you still came,” Sherlock replied, shouldering his bag and leading John away from the train station.

“I realize what that says about me, thank you very much,” John said with a laugh, grabbing his own bag and following. “Still, might be good for me to know what particular bit of madness you've got in store for us this time, yeah? Why exactly have you brought us to Dover?” John asked as Sherlock flagged down a cab.

“A wedding, John.”

“A wedding?” John said in surprise, opening the door of the black cab that had pulled up to the kerb. “Whose wedding?”

“Ours,” Sherlock said, ducking into the car and directing the cabbie to Westcliffe Hall.

“Right, of course,” John said, clambering into the car after him. “So, which of us proposed?”

Sherlock turned to stare at him incredulously. John chuckled at his expression of surprise. He'd clearly expected some sort of argument and was caught wrong footed at the way John simply rolled with the situation.

“Come on,” John said. “It's clearly for a case. We'd never get married in _Dover_.”

“London or nothing,” Sherlock agreed with a grin. 

John didn't miss the way the detective's cheeks pinked. Or the way his stomach fluttered at the sight.

“No eloping to the Bahamas? Grand Canyon wedding? The foot of the Eiffel Tower?” he teased.

“Chelsea Physic Garden,” Sherlock said, looking surprised at himself. He glanced away and cleared his throat before launching into the details of the case. John said nothing, listening, and observing things unsaid.

“You've got all that?” Sherlock asked as the cab pulled up in front of the hotel.

“Scott Williams, John Harrison, on holiday to visit wedding venues on our short list for a springtime ceremony, meeting with an event co-ordinator tomorrow at nine for a tour, and, coincidentally, investigating the staff to try to identify the person responsible for a series of serial killings of gay couples,” John summarized, opening the door and climbing out of the cab while Sherlock handed money up to the driver.

“Good. Come on, let's get checked in. Might be able to poke around a bit this evening.”

“By the time we get our key cards it'll be half eleven. Wandering the halls and grounds at this hour will only serve to call attention to ourselves. And we've got a meeting tomorrow morning.”

“I know how to skulk without being seen,” Sherlock said as they approached the desk to check in.

“I know you do, Scott,” John said, smiling at the woman behind the counter. “Just, keep your cold feet on your side of the bed when you call it a night, then, yeah?”

*** * ***

**5**

John handed the shivering detective a mug of tea, watching him eagerly wrap his long fingers around the warm ceramic. His nail beds were tinged with blue, even after a warm shower, dry clothes, and being tucked into bed, swathed in blankets.

“Right,” John said, putting his own mug of tea down on the stand between the two beds in their twin room. He grabbed the bedspread and blanket on his bed and pulled them free before coming back to spread them over Sherlock.

“You'll freeze.”

“I won't, and neither will you,” John said, picking up the pillow from his bed and squeezing it into the space next to Sherlock's. Lifting the edge of the covers, he slid into the bed and lifted his arm to curl around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him closer.

“I must admit,” Sherlock said as he relaxed against John's warmth, “I was expecting a lecture, not a cuddle.”

“Do I really need to tell you that it's a bad idea to throw yourself into frigid water, in Scotland, in mid-March? And here I thought you were a genius,” John said, reaching for his tea with his free hand. He took a drink and returned the cup to the table before continuing. “Bad idea or not – and it definitely is – it was a good thing you did today.”

“I jumped into a river to save a dog.”

“I know,” John said.

“I couldn't not do it,” Sherlock said. “He would have died.”

“Yes. And Niamh would have suffered the loss of her independence on top of the loss of her best friend,” John replied. “Thanks to you she'll have Charlie with her for years to come, and Roger Salway will rot in prison for the next decade.”

“Not long enough,” Sherlock said, finishing his tea and putting the mug on the floor beside the bed before shifting farther down under the blankets.

John reached up to turn out the light, then shifted down beside Sherlock, nudging him slightly to roll them onto their sides to slot together front to back on the single bed.

“He said it was for love.”

“What's that?”

“Roger Salway. When they were loading him into the car. He said he did it for love. Said he was trying to show Naimh that she didn't need Charlie to warn her about approaching seizures, because he'd be there to take care of her afterwards. Because he loved her.”

“That isn't love,” John said, disgusted. “Killing her support dog in order to force dependence on him is twisted beyond words. Love looks nothing like that.”

“What does love look like?” Sherlock murmured into the darkness.

John was quiet for a moment before responding.

“There has to be mutual respect. Shared interests are good. Enjoying time spent together. A desire for the other person's happiness, and their wellbeing.” He paused, considering his words. “I think,” he said after a moment, “that it looks a bit like this. Like us.”

“I think so, too,” Sherlock replied, pulling John's arms around him more tightly.

*** * ***

**+1**

They'd been home from Scotland for two weeks.

They hadn't talked about what they'd said that night, spooned together in Sherlock's single bed after his unplanned swim in the River Teviot. The air of the flat was heavy with unspoken words, and a sense of promise.

John had begun to wonder if the sense of expectation might sour if left too long. He didn't intend to find out.

From his chair by the fire, spy thriller abandoned in his lap, he watched Sherlock. The other man had picked up his violin after their dinner of Thai takeaway, and had played in fits and starts for an hour. Just now, though he still cradled the violin at his chin, his bow hand hung limp at his side. He'd been standing there, staring out the window at the London night, for several minutes.

Setting the book aside and standing, John decided it was time to take a chance.

“Come to bed, Sherlock.” The words fell easily from his lips. They felt familiar, as though he'd been saying them for years.

Sherlock turned around, his expression a mix of hope and vulnerability.

“You want me to go to bed?”

“I want you to _come_ to bed. _With me_. Not because of a head injury or a dip in an icy river,” John replied. “Not because we're _pretending_ to be together.”

Sherlock studied him briefly before nodding, his face brightening into a smile.

“Because we're done pretending that we aren't,” he said as he put away his violin and moved to take the hand John offered him.

“Something like that, yeah,” John agreed, pulling Sherlock close and finding himself enveloped in an embrace. He pulled away a moment later and pushed himself up to press his lips briefly to Sherlock's – there would be time for more intense kisses later – then stepped back, tugging Sherlock's hand. “Coming?” he asked.

“Absolutely, yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song 'Mirrorball' by Elbow. The full lyric is 'now I know what every step is for/to lead me to your door'.


End file.
